Martha My Dear
by LikeARainbow33
Summary: Martha delivers herself into The Beatles' lives! mature for later chapters perhaps


_The deep, brown eyes and the soft touch of his hands caressing mine eclipsed me. Every portion of the world was now his. The world: sky, salt water, clouds, grass, me._

The waves crashed on the Mersey shore dotted with industrial barges and little tugs putting across the grimy water. As I stood at the docks, my blonde curls clung at my nude lipstick and tangled with my fake lashes. The wind continued to harass my arms and legs suddenly cold in my above-the knee black, sleeveless dress fashioned with a shiny, ebony belt. My pointed high heels didn't add much to my comfort equation either, unfortunately. Alas, there was no comfort here for me in Liverpool, thousands of miles from Michigan. Comfort was found next to cold, deep lakes not salt water.

My mother, one of the only mothers liberal enough to feel that her daughter needed a "Foreign Education", had sent me here. She sent me here like a bright, flashy "Warning" sign- My stumbling, scouser neighbors didn't appreciate my posh American accent or fashion. Already one of the chicks with less social finesse in Michigan's high schools, I was a social outcast in Mersey's Art academy. My only saving grace was my foreign mysterious edge which was so edge-like and thin that I could barely grasp it. .

This single parent had somehow managed to secure me a flat with two local girls attending Art college, like myself. The first girl, Debra, who under strict rules was "Deb" had an accent laid on so thick that I'd taken two or three days to even gather that she wasn't in fact swearing but asking me where I was from. Deb is tall with a countenance that is reminiscent of Helen Shapiro's smeared with thick cat-eye eyeliner. She has shoulder length brown hair, straight as a bone. My European translator, Karen, was thankfully much more western than the majority of the area. Karen preferred to be called "Aaron" in an attempt that she found "made her seem more seductive and artistic". Her artificial, blonde hair, in the style of her boy-ish nickname, didn't touch her shoulders, but her wardrobe was more up to date than the three of ours combined making up for her style's otherwise masculine concepts.

Time slipped by as I contemplated my past and present. Night creeped closer and urged me home- I had my well being promised to the folks back home. Down around the corner, next to the best record shop in town, wedged between other residences, was my flat: its inner workings guarded by mismatched bricks and a wrought- iron fence. Heavy in thought, I pondered past the fence and, eventually, the door frame peeling off my shoes immediately without thought. Routinely, I was greeting in the Liverpudlian custom.

"Martha, where the bloody 'ell 'ave you been?" Deb was a charmer. She motioned to the table, "Yer mum sent her weekly bunce for ya" Without any idea what "Bunce" could possibly be I walked across the shabby couch and TV to the kitchen's island where a large package was sitting… The letter was from the U.S…. but not from Mom….

"Hey, are you sure this is mine, Deb?" She didn't hear me, so I didn't bother asking again. I looked at the address, and the intended house resided a block or two away. The landscape had been transformed into a black void. Now I had plans for tomorrow, at least. Saturdays were always uneventful anyway.

-------

Rain beat down on the glass outside my bedroom window the next morning. Thankfully, I had not been rewarded a car as well as a house. The trek in the rain was going to be enjoyable.

Karen was seated at the kitchen island down the flight of stairs leading from our bedrooms. At the bottom of the climb, Tim Dine was contemplating me from her various studies scattered next to breakfast: toast and oatmeal. "Morning, Martha, hell of an assignment, this is… This American bloke's pretty fab though. Good readin'. What're your plans for today? No classes, right?" I smiled at the fact Karen didn't know Dine, who was all the rage across the ocean, and I informed her of my plans so far. "What about your homework… You're falling behind, you know, I can tell… Are you homesick?" At times, my more insightful roommate was annoying. Why she went into art not psychology, I'll never know.

The truth was: Home was more enticing than ever. Only two months ago the plane for the Mersey shore took off. But, as it flew away, I realized how much I'd miss Elvis, Hamburgers, Apple Pie, and even Jim Dine. And, not only the customs, I left behind. My boyfriend of two years broke up with me the day that I started my travels. He drove me to the airport, walked me to the plane, and left me emotionally and now physically alone. So, depression was starting to sink in.

"I'm fine," I grabbed the letter from yesterday, "… Save some toast?" Without much though I slipped into my turquoise rain slick and was off. Emotional talk avoided.

If only I had managed an umbrella… The house was two or three blocks away and around the corner. By the time the door of the letter's recipient loomed before me I had managed to emulate the looks of a wet cat, shivering and all. Not only that, but in my haste to leave, my contact lenses were still safely tucked away in their case. My seeing impediment wasn't bad, spotting the familiar artist from earlier was only slightly strenuous, but any citizen willing to take advantage of me would be better off. The door opened.

A man, tall, brown hair, good looking in a fuzzy way (due to my current blindness), answered, "'Low! Whom may I thank for this eventuality?"

Ah, this one sounded like he talked to Deb on occasion, "The postman, I'm afraid. Good Morning, Sir, I believe I have received your package, are you…" I squinted at the letters in vain.

"Oh, Luv, come 'ead! The rain's got you right knackered," He stepped aside so that I could enter.

"Ahem, um," the "don't talk to strangers" rule that had been implanted in me came to mind, "I'll just stay here, thanks."

"Look, luv, something must be wrong judging from an answer like that. You have no reason to worry in any case. My bodyguard would cane me if I hurt ya! Right git. Now, come 'ead!" I was led like a patient in a constricting, white jacket by the strange man into the house.

"Um, I-" The rain that was obscuring my weak vision had finally be extinguished, and the stranger's face wasn't so strange, "YOU'RE JOHN LENNON!"

"I never would have guessed," he turned toward the abyss of the house, "Mal, good news, she's not mental!"

Another voice came from the room next to the entryway, "A shame. I always enjoy the hysteric ones… Well, most of them."

I'm standing next to John Lennon, a Beatle, _the rhythm guitarist of The Beatles_, _from the beatles, _THE BEATLES! And, I must say, he is quite attractive. His hair was cut in a long mop-top which ended nicely right above his almost- squinting, brown eyes. Eyes that weren't afraid to size you up, to look through you, to contemplate you. Underneath he holds a somewhat garish nose that is long, slender ending in a point. John has managed to turn his potentially hideous nose into a masculine masterpiece hung right above his thin lips set with a deep cupid's bow on a strong, square jaw. To top it off he stood before me in a white t-shirt and jeans which shows off his figure perfectly. Nevermind, he is beautiful. Ex- boyfriend, who?

I tried to collect myself, "Hello, My name's Martha. It seems as though our postman has gotten our mail mixed," I handed him his package labeled "Dr. Winston Lennon".

"Well, Martha, you're better than any postman I've had anyway, or, at least, one can assume," he smiled a devious grin at Mal who entered the room from behind me, "Hear that? There's been a bit of a rick. She was delivered to the wrong house, a shame, I've had to wait all this time for her."

The bodyguard just shook his head. John's antics were acclimated into his head long ago, "Lennon, leave the girl alone. You're making her blush."

"Say it isn't so! Whip me, I've been led astray! You can so then honors, crumpet." He winked.

"Excuse me!" all the other innuendos were lost on me, a poor twenty year-old from America, but that last comment I definitely understood.

"Excuse you? Sure, as soon as you promise me one thing." I just stared, "Step in for tea? I do love my Americans, and I've been barred up for days." I squinted back at my new oppressor and nodded in agreement too afraid to say anything due to the fact that it could be twisted into a dirty joke and… The most beautiful, famous man that I had ever met stood before me.

He laughed as he led me to the kitchen in the next room, sensing my uneasiness. He pulled out a chair for me to sit on at the table. I contemplated the surroundings. This was a small, dingy sort of place complete with checkered tile on the floor and half of the wall. The stove was art student quality; the same model was in our apartment (it was the cheapest stove available.) Besides the frigerator, table, and tea pot, the room was barren. John caught me observing and threw me a questioning look.

Now feeling a little abused from the torment the so called "innocent" mop top had spewed at me, I was much more confident. The past comments I had decided to neatly sweep away and excise due to his fame. "You know, I'd figured something a bit more palatial for the great John Lennon. My flat isn't much better, and I'm a student!"

"Oh, this is the _modest _wing... The other twenty are much more promising, I assure you,"He chuckled and went to grab some tea that was already being made, "A student, eh? Why Liverpool?" I explained my desires to be a well-known artist and that my mom was the most left-winged woman to live in the sixties yet. She figured studying in a foreign land would help my eventual fame and look great in the many books she'd imagined me starring in after I had hit it big. He laughed at that aspect.

"Ah, showbiz, you gotta love it. I must thank yer mum one day… What field of art are you interested in?"

And that's when it started. For the next two hours, my starstruck attitude melted off and slid away as smoothly as the conversation flowed. John, it seems, was an art student. We talked about "modern art", we talked about impressionism, surrealism, Monet, Chagall, and I was even informed of the beating art scene from John's day. He was fascinating. Everything came attached with his opinion: a mixture of book-read fact and pure observation. Yet, as soon as one seemed to tack him up by the wings to observe him; he was gone in a flutter of wit. By the end, I had promised him a look at my sketchbook, and he had promised to be extremely critical when finally seeing this "holy grail of immaturity". Suddenly, at the mention of my absent drawings, in an almost disappointing urge, I felt the need for a pencil and paper sild underneath me to draw on. Something about John inspired me to the point of nausea.

Almost as if he could sense my uneasiness, "Well, you've been here a long time. _Hate_ for you to be up the creek by yer boyfriend," he winked then became more serious, "We'll have to save that for later. Can I see you again? These chains seem lighter when I'm talking to someone else other than Mal… on house arrest, you see," he grinned an impish grin. I inferred that due to his current fame he couldn't leave much.

"Sure. Are you available tomorrow?"

"Coming on strong, I see! Are _you_ available?"

Lennon had guts. That last question definitely had a double edge to it. My face filled up, and I was pink almost indefinitely, "Yes."

"I knew the men at art school were puffs… same time then!"


End file.
